


Dreaming of Montgisard

by Ahsurika



Category: Kingdom of Heaven (2005)
Genre: 12th Century, Ayyubid-Crusader War, Character Study, Gen, Yuletide 2020, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28146456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsurika/pseuds/Ahsurika
Summary: The soul belongs to the man, he’d told Balian. What he hadn’t said was that a king is not a man at all. A king is his kingdom, both in body and in soul, and this one grapples with the failures of his dream.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Dreaming of Montgisard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fabrisse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabrisse/gifts).



> for this fic I’ve blurred the canon timeline and mixed some historical references into the gaps. Baudouin’s leprosy has advanced after Kerak, but I’ve given him a year or two more than he had in the movie. he has not yet made his offer to Balian at fic start.
> 
> 1-10-21: changed the title to its original draft title

The man who was Jerusalem woke on his deathbed.

His alternate bedchamber had all the make of a tomb. It had only been used once before, fourteen months ago during his last relapse into the throes of this disease. From this vantage and in the blur of this watery lamplight he could not see the door. He was surrounded by unfamiliar walls with gilded designs. The draperies were of saffron-colored silk, material fit for a shroud, not the thick, royal blue hangings that cocooned Baudouin in his dreams.

Most men would rage at finding themselves moved thusly without their consent. Baudouin was not most men. He had not truly controlled his body since he was a child.

Ever, really.

Not that Baudouin needed to be in those rooms to see them. How long had he known little else? A chest-high wall dividing study and sun yard, edged with pearl-border tiles from Ghazni and topped by a terracotta screen. At his bedside, cameos of the Virgin and Child cut from chalcedony and agate and set against rich gold. Cast bronze and glazed bowls from Mosul, delicate metalwork of towers from Tuscany, books on mathematics from Baghdad and on theology from the monasteries of Auxerre. The chess set brought all the way from Devagiri, last used for his game with Balian. The world he could not see, he'd ordered brought to him.

Baudouin could locate every item in those chambers with his eyes removed. He hardly needed to _be_ there to pace its tiled floor.

Die here. Die three hundred paces from here in rooms Baudouin knew like his own thoughts. Either way, he would hardly be in a position to care for long. What did the dress of his cage matter?

Some minutes after waking, Baudouin discovered he had the strength to lean himself up against the headboard. A pleasant surprise, if a damnably faint one, to overcome his infected lethargy. Such successful effort encouraged him that when Saladin’s physicians arrived, he might yet regain his movement.

What a stir _that_ would cause in Christendom, if the king in the Holy Land recovered by the work of Muslim hands.

He had dictated letters — how it rankled this warrior-turned-scholar to have another hold his quill — addressed to the great king. Talk of treaties, peace, details usually best saved for a face-to-face negotiation. Fortunate there were none who would truly question the King of Jerusalem, though Baudouin half-suspected that Tiberias had _every_ letter to Damascus read.

The additional letter for Saphadin was in friendship only, recognition of the courtesy and respect the man had always shown him; his familial support for Saladin would never waver. Baudouin’s missives to al-Afdal in Damascus and to al-Aziz in Cairo spoke of greater matters, but even the vainest hope would not delude Baudouin into believing that filial discord might slow the inevitable.

Jerusalem was vulnerable. Saladin would come with fire for blood.

Perhaps, if he received Raynald’s head…

Baudouin’s exhale came as a heavy sigh in the empty chamber. A fantasy. If Tiberias had not yet executed Raynald by now, he never would. Guy would never assent to the death of his political shield, and so the trial of an anointed knight would have to go through every channel. Ridefort and the greater body of the Templars could not be alienated, nor Raynald’s relations in Burgundy. The pope would be consulted, all the way in Rome. The bickering would continue until Saladin brought two hundred thousand men to Jerusalem’s gates.

Like all else that Baudouin had created, his peace would die with him. As had always been meant to be.

Unless.

His breathing grew ragged, harsh. A cough. Another. Baudouin stared resolutely at the wall opposite him until, finally, his lungs gave up the struggle. Lowering himself as gently as he could from his upright position, Baudouin settled back into the coverlet.

Damn this disease to _Hell_ , but there was a way. A path Baudouin might choose to keep his dream alive.

His kingdom’s soul was stained deep with blood he had not spilt. His ancestors had guaranteed a moral imperative of vengeance and the bill had yet to be settled. Everything Baudouin had bent toward aggressive maintenance of his peace…the Christian knights hanged, the taxes levied, the strained relations and fervent missives…all would count for nothing on the day his body completed its betrayal.

Again the unworthy thought returned, festering like Baudouin’s many sores: had he not been kept from the battlefield by his disease, would he still have so radically pursued his present vision?

A useless thought, its futility many times acknowledged. Nonetheless, persistent.

But there was a way he could find out. There was a man Baudouin had seen share both his vision and his youth, but had as much energy as Baudouin did not. Who had hopes of peace and a body for war. Who knew how to swing a sword and when it belonged in the scabbard.

All Baudouin had to do was ask the young baron.

Darkness dropped his lids again, shutting away the unfamiliar tomb, and Baudouin strove once more to regain his dream. It should have been easy. For most of his life he had moved his mind beyond the palace limits. He exercised control over his dreams in ways that would set the cardinals of Rome to shuddering. Now that he had advanced his end by several years, unconsciousness should be the state his body fled to.

Yet right now Baudouin could not do it. His lungs scraped too raw. His body hung limp. Paralysis weighed him down like chains. Sleep eluded him, and when it finally came it would offer neither respite nor lucidity.

What was it that prevented his return to Montgisard, even in his own mind?

* * *

Five weeks after Kerak, Balian came to see him.

He entered Baudouin’s new chambers in a pressed surcoat with his father’s…no, not his father’s colors. _His_. He’d grown into them splendidly, with much to be proud of. Kerak, of course. The duel against the “lord of Syria”. And Sibylle had written extensively of the fruits Ibelin was bearing under its new stewardship. (To say nothing of what his dear sister had _not_ mentioned in regards to the young baron, nor needed to.)

But Baudouin had trained himself in observation, for men revealed much that they did not realize to a king whose face they could not discern. Balian’s shoulders drooped, and he seemed to carry a new crease between his eyebrows. A public hero in private conflict.

This was a man who had climbed quickly to the top of the world and found the winds cold.

“You did well at Kerak,” Baudouin said, strength returning to his voice at the memory. What an experience, to ride out at the head of an army once more! “A thousand innocents and more live because you were there.”

He stopped short of calling it foolishness. Royal command, not recklessness, had sent Balian to Kerak. But it was Balian and no one else who had chosen an impossible battle rather than ignore his oaths.

And then ridden in a charge reminiscent of another six years ago, when an even younger noble had taken the field against Saladin’s vastly superior force.

“I live by your grace,” Balian said, bowing his head. An acknowledgement of gratitude owed to the king who’d sacrificed years to ride out for their peace, and in so doing had saved the lives of one small company. The great and the small in one, neither less meaningful for the other.

With an effort, Baudouin turned over his palm and gestured slowly to Balian with his wrapped fingers. “Help me sit.”

Swiftly Balian leaped to aid his king. Baudouin decided not to feel envy at the man’s vigor; he could hardly begrudge that which served his kingdom so well.

“Why did you do it?”

Balian opened his mouth —

“And do not tell me it was your duty,” Baudouin interrupted. “You are not so obedient as that.”

Some of the lines in Balian’s face smoothed, and Baudouin knew he had chosen right. “I think you ask because you know the answer,” Balian demurred.

“Yes,” Baudouin said, smiling. With what he would soon ask of Balian, he could allow this modesty. “I do.”

He watched as something akin to serenity approached Balian’s expression. Lips pursed, features gentle yet firm.

“Thank you also for protecting Sibylle on the road to Kerak,” Baudouin said after a while. A chuckle escaped him before he could restrain it. “And for the hospitality you showed her at your home in Ibelin.”

Oh, Godfrey’s son _indeed_. The poor man was not an idiot, and he could not have worn the truth more clearly had he shouted it in the street. Without the leprosy limiting him, Baudouin would have burst into laughter then and there.

How long had it been since he’d felt genuine amusement unrestrained by cynicism?

“My Lord…at Ibelin, I…we…it was never my…”

Balian seemed to gather his courage in a great indrawn breath. “She spoke to you?” he asked, finally meeting Baudouin’s eye.

Baudouin's levity vanished as quickly as it had come, and he was suddenly glad for his mask. He mulled over his words for long beats before telling a different truth. “You have an honest heart, Balian of Ibelin. In all matters of life, you keep choosing compassion where others would cower, and what is right over what others would demand.”

He allowed Balian to digest what he was saying before affecting sternness. “My dear sister has known far too much suffering in her life, and far too little love. You will not apologize to me for acting as you have, and if you do I will not accept it.”

He could not ask Balian now. Not with the young baron so troubled, not when Baudouin still had many months yet. Let the man continue living his own dream. Let Ibelin flourish in peace. Baudouin's authority could protect both for a little longer.

“And when the time comes for you to answer to God, my friend, He will understand what is in your heart…”

His hand sought Balian’s atop the coverlet. Though Baudouin could only see them touch, his own being without feeling, he imagined it anyway: the hand's outline, its engineer’s dexterity, the strength with which it held a sword. The hand that would succeed his in holding this fragile peace together.

“…or He is not God, and you need not worry.”

* * *

After Balian’s visit, the days melted back into unbroken monotony. Other visitors cycled through his chambers, but most only furthered Baudouin’s boredom. They bowed, simpered, listened to the words of Jerusalem, then departed carrying another piece of Baudouin with them. Individually, they were easy to ignore. In aggregation, they made Baudouin yearn to be back on his horse, his illness be damned.

Yearn more than usual, anyway.

Tiberias came, of course, but his appearances grew ever more infrequent and brusque as he worked tirelessly to build support for Sibylle’s young son. Baudouin understood, but it grated to see so little of his friend. Especially as it came at the same time as an increase in the distasteful sorties by Eraclius and his horde of priests and visiting bishops, all vying for the king's spiritual affections. As if Baudouin had not made it _entirely clear_ that he would not be confessing to the type of men who believed Hell awaited a leper.

Balian was gone, he’d been told, returned to Ibelin for a time, and Sibylle...would not see him.

Only one visitor was worth waking for. Ironically, he was the one whose appearance set the entire palace on edge.

“Your welcome has been kind, King of Jerusalem.”

Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani seated himself a body’s length from the bed. Half a dozen Christian guards surrounded him, visors down and spears lowered, yet Saladin’s right hand sat as leisurely as in his own home. He had come dressed in aristocratic damask, black robes inlaid with intricate purple threads and a dark _qammi_ visible beneath. A navy turban, turned green-black by the chamber’s light, covered his head. His brown skin also caught the lamplight, which lent it a gold cast. Shadows pooled beneath his high cheekbones and in his trim beard. Only scant wrinkles, mere concepts in this dimness, hinted at Imad’s age.

A good thing the armies at Kerak had never closed more than half a mile, or that so few of Outremer’s living knights had ever ventured to Damascus. Not many men had a face as memorable as did the scholar from Isfahan, and only one also commanded the ruthless vanguard of Saladin's cavalry.

“My master has the utmost respect for you Christians and your endeavors here,” Imad said, the French words hardened by his accent. He clapped his hands before gesturing to the doorway, where a huddle of doctors in white-and-beige garb waited. “He sends his physicians to Jerusalem in hopes they may aid you in your present condition.”

Baudouin offered a noncommittal sound.

 _You Christians_. _Your endeavors_. _Present condition_. So his gamble at Kerak had worked. In exchange for years of Baudouin's life, Saladin would wait until Jerusalem's king had died to march on the beleaguered kingdom. For some reason, hearing this confirmation from Imad did little to reassure Baudouin.

Here was one point in Damascus’s favor, however: their physicians studied in the company of the finest minds from Baghdad. Saladin’s men conducted their examination of Baudouin wordlessly and with practiced efficiency. Several priests approached when they took out their ointments; whether from sworn Godly duty or to ward off their superstitions concerning Muslim medicine, Baudouin preferred not to contemplate.

For two hours they worked, Baudouin noticing them as if from outside his body. He did not feel them unwrap the gauze around his arms, his face, his legs. He did not feel them dab the ointment on cuts and sores that he’d never known he had, or on skin rubbed angrily to the flesh where he had sat days in the saddle.

He kept turning his eyes to Imad, who sat perfectly at ease amidst the wavering ring of spears. Not a muscle moved for as long as Baudouin could keep him in view. He looked almost bored.

Only when the physicians had bowed and retreated did Imad stir. The guards bristled at the sudden movement.

“Leave us,” Baudouin commanded before they could start a war.

Thankfully, when faced with the choice of leaving their king undefended or undermining his authority in front of an enemy’s ambassador, the Christian soldiers backed slowly to the chamber walls.

Baudouin nodded at Imad. The older man stared back, curiosity in his dark eyes.

“You honor my palace with your presence,” Baudouin said into the stillness, hoping his measured tone would convey what was not _quite_ a threat.

Too mannered to sigh, Imad quirked an eyebrow. “Many do not think so.”

Baudouin had enough strength in his jaw to grimace. He had been vain and foolish to hope that Imad would not recognize the meaning of the barons' allowing Saladin’s handpicked men to examine their liege lord. Hard proof that Jerusalem’s authority was deep in decline. Guy probably prayed that the physicians _would_ hasten Baudouin’s end.

If the memory of Montgisard had given Saladin any pause at Kerak, that hesitation would be gone the hour Imad returned to Damascus.

An olive branch, then, would not be weakness, not when Baudouin’s weakness already lay exposed for Imad to quite plainly see. “Many also wield swords for the current state of affairs,” he ventured.

Imad stared at Baudouin long enough that the king would have shivered if he could. When he replied, it was with a tinge of dark regret. “My master is not the only one who recognizes this state you speak of. There is respect in his court, as I told you.”

Translation: _Saladin might have left your kingdom in peace, but you are not the only lord with belligerent vassals_.

It did not escape Baudouin’s notice that Imad left unclear, even in implication, the camp in which he stood. “Respect will not change what is to come,” he murmured half to himself, too softly for his guards to hear.

“No,” Imad agreed in the same quiet voice. Baudouin could not tell whether he heard sorrow or resolve in the heavy word. Perhaps both.

They watched each other for a time. There was so much Baudouin wished to say to one he considered a kindred spirit: men of learning, masters of cavalry. So much he could never say, not while they stood as foes, and it seemed as though that would never change.

“Thank you for sparing Balian at Kerak,” he said, the thought striking him suddenly. A smile lifted his lips beneath his mask. “Your enemies know your quality, Imad ad-Din.”

Imad blinked at the words, as if surprised to hear them said aloud. Then his chiseled face melted into a smile that shone rich as a desert sunset. “God is not done with him yet,” Imad said, warmth in his voice. “And nor are you, King of Jerusalem.”

He raised his hand slowly, a gesture of good faith to Baudouin’s guards so that they would not rush him when he stood. As they surrounded him, Imad smoothed his robes, then returned his eyes to Baudouin.

“ _Peace be upon you_ ,” he mouthed.

A pang struck Baudouin. Even in his holy farewell, such an esteemed man was unwilling to risk audible Arabic in this chamber.

Another of Jerusalem’s failures.

Imad’s expression twitched as if he could hear the king’s thoughts. Pity mingled there with something unfathomable. Not quite compassionate. Not quite calculating.

With one last, long look, he turned and swept gracefully from the room. The guards followed close in his wake, hands on their sword pommels. Though the soldiers’ armor had been what mirrored the light, Baudouin chose to imagine it was Imad’s absence that drained the room’s luster. Chose to ignore that the next time Imad ad-Din stood in this palace, the kingdom of Jerusalem would be dead.

How quietly, how surely his dream perished around him.

* * *

Baudouin woke on his deathbed to find that he was no longer alone.

At first he thought it was Eraclius again, come for what Baudouin still refused to give. How dearly the man wanted to take confessions from a king, to set himself up for the inevitable last rites. But the glint of chainmail laid the lie to such belief.

Guy, perhaps? No. The scion of Lusignan did not know how to enter a room quietly, as if by volume he could own a space his presence did not fill. Tiberias, then.

Or no! Raynald. Or Saladin, or Godfrey, or any other impossible figure. Maybe Christ Himself. A phantom grin twitched Baudouin’s lips. Would that he had made Jerusalem _half_ so holy a city such that He would stoop to visit its permanent decline.

But the figure who stopped at the side of the bed was none of them, so far a certainty as Baudouin’s ailing vision could provide. A man he did not recognize.

Straining his lifeless muscles, Baudouin forced his head to turn so he could better observe his visitor. In the flickering goldlight, humility became the man: a knight and a monk without either’s conceits. The fabric of his surcoat was wrinkled, its threads no thicker than necessary to keep him comfortably accoutered. Hair like straw cut short. Posture relaxed in a patient stance, as if awaiting his king’s command freed him rather than constrained him.

His tabard displayed a flared cross, clean white on a black field. A Hospitaller. Perhaps he’d been there at Baudouin’s great triumph. Fought with the rest of his order, frenzied and desperate, and won the day at great cost. Whatever did the man think now, watching that same king struggle to draw breath through his death mask?

Though he peered above the straw blur that must be the man’s moustache, Baudouin could not see the knight’s eyes.

“You summoned me, milord.”

Several long, difficult breaths bought Baudouin the use of his voice.

“So I did,” he heard himself say, anger rising in him. Desmoulins. That was it. He had written Desmoulins nine weeks ago to call a meeting regarding the succession and received no reply. Until now, apparently. “The Grand Master’s support here has cooled since Belvoir’s siege. Has he removed permanently to Syria?”

The Hospitaller shook his head. “I have not been to see him in some years.”

Baudouin halted his reflexive anger, considered the evasive words. He had not missed the manner of the man’s initial address, nor that the Hospitaller’s accent contained no boast or affect. Comforting, after so many years of dealing with Guy and his stream of knights from France…or indeed with Desmoulins and many in the Hospitaller’s own order. This knight came with his own humble will.

A man who was not also a city might have felt shame at misreading this man so. Jerusalem, instead, adapted. “Where were you?”

The question seemed to invigorate the Hospitaller. “I joined Godfrey of Ibelin when he traveled home in search of his son.”

Godfrey’s son. Balian. Who had arrived at the Holy Land alone of all his party and become Jerusalem’s staunchest ally. Friend of Imad ad-Din al-Isfahani. Life-bringer to Ibelin and hero at Kerak. Born from an indiscretion Godfrey had committed before the king of Jerusalem had been born.

“You were there when Godfrey died,” Baudouin realized.

A nod.

Baudouin sank back into the patterned coverlet, and the Hospitaller bowed at the tacit permission. He faded from the limit of Baudouin’s vision. Moments later the gentle _thump_ of chair legs on the Syrian carpet heralded his return to Baudouin’s bedside.

A wheezing cough overcame Baudouin, preventing him from speaking for nearly half a minute. “If the Grand Master did not send you, Frère,” Baudouin said when he had recovered, “then why have you come to my chambers?”

The knight-monk leaned forward, his features wrinkled in kindness. “For your words, milord,” he said without undue subservience or a trace of pride.

A surprised noise escaped Baudouin. He knew that the man did not mean Baudouin’s confession; Godfrey would never have trusted a man capable of such deceit. And the man knew Balian, had played a decisive role in his journey to Ibelin’s barony. This was not one of Eraclius's cronies.

“Then come,” Baudouin said. “Tell me what you think of Godfrey’s son.”

The Hospitaller stared down at his hands, clasped together between his knees. He appeared to be considering the question, but Baudouin could glean nothing else from observing him.

“He did not join Godfrey at first,” the man eventually said. “He rode after us when he felt he had to expiate his soul and that of his deceased wife. He strives to do what he believes is right, and to balance his heart with what the world expects of him.” He lifted his head, and Baudouin had the unnerving sense that the man had seen right through the surface of Baudouin’s question. “He will take the advice of those he trusts to heart, no matter the context in which it is given.”

Silence filtered into the space between them.

Baudouin, unprepared to consider the implications of what the man was saying, sought a different course. “Did you know,” he said slowly, “that there are men of religion in France who argue that a king is not one person, but two? One of nature, one of grace.”

Curiosity cocked the Hospitaller’s head. “I’m familiar with the theory,” he said, his voice soft.

“I do not know if I believe it,” Baudouin continued, chuckling, “or that I am so divine…but if it is so, then is his kingdom not also two? The body —” he gave a slight nod toward his torso, stretched along the bed “— made of walls and men and the lifeblood of trade.”

“And when the body dies,” the Hospitaller interjected, “the soul is saved.” His eyes fell, his expression suddenly making him seem many years older. “Or not.”

Baudouin opened his mouth. Exhaled. Closed it. “Would that I had spoken to more of your order during times of peace,” he managed to say.

The Hospitaller’s lips winged in a small, pleased smile.

Baudouin nodded slowly to himself. He understood now why he was struggling to see his visitor's unspoken devices: simply put, this Hospitaller did not try to hide himself. What Baudouin saw was the unfettered truth of the man. He could trust him.

“I will offer Balian Jerusalem.” He wished he could rise from his bed and draw up the declaration now, sign it himself, but it would not do to have but one knight in witness. Speaking it aloud for the first time would have to be enough. “He will succeed when this disease has taken me. He'll maintain my peace..."

And to do so, Balian would need to execute Raynald and Guy. He would kill knights and alienate Templars, Hospitallers, perhaps some of Baudouin's own retainers. The barons' factions would harden, many against him in unassailable castles. He would forever fend off attacks from all fronts: the Church would despise him for his doubts, the nobles of Europe for the status of his birth. Peace would be bloody, war never far away. And all the while, the threat from Damascus would hang over Balian's head, a sword forged of religion and reckoning and two hundred thousand men.

Sibylle would aid him, but to keep his kingdom alive Balian would destroy his soul, and Jerusalem's with it.

In his silence, the words were gentle: “Will you forgive him?”

It took Baudouin several seconds to understand what the Hospitaller meant. “You think he will refuse.”

“Is that not why you’ve chosen him?”

For a moment so brief he recognized it only in memory, Baudouin imagined he could feel every muscle in his inert limbs, every inch of his unfeeling skin.

As with all momentous things, the answer to both questions came soft as a sigh:

“Yes.”

In response, the Hospitaller knelt by the side of the bed and leaned in close. His hand cupped the edge of Baudouin’s mask. A hairsbreadth from the king’s leprous wounds, yet he showed no sign that he feared the disease.

“We dream of a perfect world,” the Hospitaller said. Compassion caught in his voice like a physical thing. Baudouin was arrested by the sky-blue of his eyes, at once both distant and intimate, sorrowful and content. “And we always wake from our dreams. Every day, until Christ calls us to His breast, we wake, and our dreams fade in the daylight. That does not mean these dreams did not happen, or that the dreamer was wrong to dream, and when they fade we hold their memory.”

The Hospitaller straightened, his hand falling to his belt. Baudouin’s vision blurred again, the leprosy encroaching further on his sight, and his visitor’s fine details blurred into themselves, colors blending and lines distorting.

“Your soul is yours too, King of Jerusalem,” the blur said. “ _in hac nocte tu quietem invenias_.”

Firelight flickered across the walls, mesmerizing in its liquidity. Baudouin closed his eyes, but the truths he saw could not be blocked out with the light.

He should be angry with himself. How often had he thought himself caged? How many times had he wished to leave the chambers he knew? And yet he knew, too, that Balian would not accede to a royal demand for its own sake. If Balian took charge of Baudouin’s dream, it would be because he deemed it right.

If Balian turned it down, Baudouin had no right to insist further. All dreams ended. He had tried to live his for six years. He would continue for as long as he could.

When he opened his eyes again, the Hospitaller had already departed.

Only now that he was alone did Baudouin realize he had never asked the man’s name. Nor had it been offered. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought the exchange a dream itself.

He felt light, lighter than he had in a long time. Though his vision remained a half-blind smear, his breath came easier and more full, and he found himself daring to push himself to a seated position without assistance.

When the time came, he would offer Jerusalem to Balian. The command of its armies, the promise of a peace with swords ever at its throat. Support from powerful corners: Imad’s friendship, Sibylle’s love, the respect of Saladin himself.

He would offer up his soul, and let Balian do with it as he willed.

That night, Baudouin dreamed.

* * *

He sees the banners.

The gold crosses of his own sigil, of Jerusalem’s, sparkling on brilliant blue or sun-faded white. The stark contrast in the Hospitallers’ white on black and the bloody promise of the Templars’ crimson on white. Absolved mercenaries from Aragon, from Brabanter, from the south of Italy. The rocky hills and outcroppings that have hidden the dust of the Christians’ approach now mask the size of their small force.

Less than a mile in front of them, Saladin’s Egyptians dash for their weapons. Much of their cavalry is missing, unseen by Baudouin’s ragged scouts, but their baggage train is mired in the bog. What else there is of this large army, six or seven times the size of Baudouin’s force, was caught mid-march. They are strung out. Unprepared.

A large beast with its belly exposed.

Baudouin draws his sword. Above him the Outremer standard blazes bright, an echo of what the Christians saw at the Milvian a thousand years ago. He takes it as a promise of renewal. For Jerusalem, and for Baudouin himself.

His spirit swells.

 _in nomine Christi_ , he cries, _carpite! eos carpite!_ , and a great cheer swells around him in loud French and Latin, in Italian and Greek and rich Venetian, in Germanic and Arabic and Turkic tongues, even in growling Anglo. Shouts of _Deus!_ and _Pater!_ and _Catherine, Saint Catherine!_ follow them as they crash like a rockslide into Saladin’s forces. Victory comes swiftly, and every mile of pursuit gains Jerusalem another year.

And in the dream, Baudouin feels what he could not know at the time.

Hooves pound on the sunbaked earth. He hears this thundering cavalry as slippered footfalls on stone.

The ringing din of steel against steel fades to the falling-raindrop chimes of distant bells.

Battle cries, Christian and Muslim, coalesce into a single reverent murmur, one God no longer distinguishable from another.

At Montgisard, Baudouin founds a new dream.

He hopes he wakes to it.

**Author's Note:**

> (notes posted after author reveal)
> 
> this fic mixes the movie characters with references to some figures of history with whom Baudouin/Baldwin would've been familiar. (His half-sister Isabella, however, remains absent.) The Battle of Montgisard in 1177 was the young king's major victory -- Baudouin caught out Saladin's army unprepared, five or six times the size of his own, and crushed it. The Hospitallers were at that battle in force, so the final section could easily be a meeting with a veteran of it.
> 
> Whether _our_ Hospitaller is only human or something more, I hoped to remain ambiguous ;)
> 
> Imad's section was by far the most fun to write. I wanted Imad to respect the king for his dream while being cognizant of the political realities, one of which being that this king has also given crusaders like Reynald freedom to roam.
> 
> So thrilled to receive such a lovely and thought-provoking prompt for a movie I love. Hope y'all enjoyed the read!


End file.
